She Came to Stay

by Simone de Beauvoir

  ‘Are you sure this isn’t going to disturb you?’ she said, starting to unwrap her sheets of paper.

  ‘Oh no, I just have to be here to see that no one makes any noise,’ said Gerbert.

  The three strikes of the gong reverberated in the silence with ominous solemnity. The curtain rose. Caesar’s procession was gathered near the door opening on to the stage. Labrousse entered, draped in his white toga.

  ‘Fancy you being here!’ he said to his sister.

  ‘Well, I am,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘But I thought you weren’t doing any portraits these days,’ he said, looking over her shoulder.

  ‘This is a study,’ said Elisabeth. ‘If I did nothing but composition I’d spoil my touch.’

  ‘Come and see me later,’ said Labrousse.

  He went on through the door and the procession fell in behind him.

  ‘It’s strange to watch a play from the wings,’ said Elisabeth. ‘You can see how it’s put together.’

  She shrugged her shoulders and Gerbert looked at her in embarrassment. He was always ill at ease with her, for he did not understand very clearly what she expected of him; every once in a while, he felt that she was slightly crazy.

  ‘Stay just like that. Don’t move,’ said Elisabeth. She smiled, concerned. ‘Is it a tiring pose?’

  ‘No,’ said Gerbert.

  It was not tiring in the least, but it certainly made him feel a damned fool. As Ramblin walked through the green-room he gave him a quizzical look. Silence ensued. All the doors were closed and not a sound could be heard. Out there, the actors were moving about in front of an empty house. Elisabeth was obstinately sketching in order not to lose her touch, and Gerbert was there, looking like a fool. ‘There’s no rhyme or reason,’ he thought in a rage. As in his dressing-room a short while before, he felt an emptiness in the pit of his stomach. One memory always came back to him when he was in this mood-that of a fat spider he had seen in Provence one evening when on a walking tour. Attached to its thread, it hung dangling from a tree; it would climb, then let itself drop back in sharp jerks; it would climb up again with such harrowing patience that it was impossible to understand whence it derived this continuing courage: it seemed so terribly alone in the world.

  ‘Is your marionette show going to last a little while longer?’ asked Elisabeth.

  ‘Dominique said until the end of the week,’ said Gerbert.

  ‘Did Pagès finally turn down the part?’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘She promised me she’d come tonight,’ said Gerbert.

  Pencil in air, Elisabeth stared Gerbert in the eye.

  ‘What do you think of Pagès?’

  ‘She’s all right,’ said Gerbert.

  ‘Anything else?’ said Elisabeth. She had a curious, insistent smile; she looked as if she were putting him through an examination.

  ‘I don’t know her very well,’ said Gerbert.

  Elisabeth laughed candidly.

  ‘Well, of course, if you’re as shy as she is …’

  She bent over her sketch and began to work with an air of concentration.

  ‘I’m not shy,’ said Gerbert. He felt, with rage, that he was blushing; it was ridiculous, but he hated that anyone should talk to him about himself, and he could not even move to hide his face.

  ‘I can’t help thinking you are,’ said Elisabeth with evident amusement.

  ‘Why?’ said Gerbert.

  ‘Because otherwise it wouldn’t have been very hard for you to become better acquainted with her.’ Elisabeth looked up and stared at Gerbert with apparently genuine curiosity. ‘You really haven’t noticed anything? Or are you pretending?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Gerbert, put out of countenance.

  ‘You’re really delightful,’ said Elisabeth. ‘This shrinking violet modesty is so rare.’ She was talking into space, self-confidently. Perhaps she really was on the verge of insanity.

  ‘But Pagès doesn’t give me a thought,’ said Gerbert.

  ‘Do you think so?’ said Elisabeth with a touch of irony.

  Gerbert did not answer. It was true that Pagès had acted strangely in his company at times, but that did not prove much; she took no interest in anyone, except in Françoise and Labrousse. Elisabeth was trying to make fun of him, sucking the point of her pencil with an impatient look.

  ‘She doesn’t appeal to you?’ she said.

  Gerbert shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘You’ve got things wrong,’ he said.

  He looked round in embarrassment. Elisabeth had always been tactless. She talked irresponsibly, just for the pleasure of talking. But this time, really, she was going too far.

  ‘Five minutes,’ he said, getting up. ‘It’s time for the acclamations.’

  The members of the crowd had come in and sat down at the other end of the green-room. He motioned to them and slowly opened the door on to the stage. The actors’ voices could not be heard, but Gerbert took his cue from the muted music which accompanied the dialogue between Cassius and Casca. Every evening he felt the same excitement while he waited for the theme indicating that the people were offering the crown to Caesar: he almost believed in the deceptive and dubious solemnity of this moment. He raised his hand and a great outcry drowned the last chords of the piano. Once more he watched in the silence emphasized by a far-away murmur of voices, then the short melody was heard again and a shout rose from every throat; the third time, a few words barely outlined the theme and the voices rose with redoubled volume.

  ‘Now, well be undisturbed for a while,’ said Gerbert, resuming his pose. He was intrigued, no matter what he might say; he was likeable, that he knew; he was even too likeable, but Pagès! – that would be flattering!

  ‘I saw Pagès this evening,’ he said after a pause. ‘I can assure you she didn’t seem to feel too kindly towards me.’

  ‘How was that?’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘She was fuming because I was to dine with Françoise and Labrousse.’

  ‘Ah! I see,’ said Elisabeth. ‘She’s as jealous as a cat, that young woman. She must really have hated you, but that doesn’t prove anything.’ Elisabeth made a few pencil strokes in silence. Gerbert wanted to question her more closely, but he was unable to put into words any question that he did not consider indiscreet.

  ‘It’s a nuisance to have a child like that in one’s life,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Devoted as Françoise and Labrousse may be, she’s still a burden to them.’

  Gerbert remembered the incident that had occurred that evening, and Labrousse’s good-natured tone. ‘That girl is a little tyrant, but we do manage to keep our ends up.’

  He remembered people’s faces and intonations very clearly, only he was unable to go further and grasp what they were thinking; the incident stood out before him, distinct and precise, without his being able to arrive at any clear idea. He hesitated. This was a heaven-sent opportunity to gather a little information.

  ‘I don’t understand very clearly just how they feel about her,’ he said.

  ‘You know what they’re like,’ said Elisabeth. ‘They’re so taken up with one another that their relationships with other people are always superficial or else a game.’ She bent over her sketch with a look of complete absorption. ‘They like having an adopted daughter, but I think that it’s also beginning to act as a poison.’

  Gerbert hesitated a moment.

  ‘Labrousse stares at Pagès with such solicitude at times.’

  Elisabeth laughed.

  ‘Surely you don’t think Pierre is in love with Pagès?’ she said.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Gerbert. He was choking with rage. This woman was a perfect trollop with her elder sister act.

  ‘Just you watch her,’ said Elisabeth, becoming serious again. ‘I’m certain of what I’m saying. You only have to lift a finger.’ She added with heavy irony: ‘It’s quite true that you do have to lift your finger.’

  Dominique’s cabaret was as deserted as Les Tréteaux; th
e show had been performed in front of six gloomy-faced habitués. Gerbert felt a lump rise in his throat as he laid the little oilcloth princess in a suitcase; this was perhaps the last evening. Tomorrow, a rain of grey dust would descend on Europe, drowning the fragile dolls, the settings, bistro bars, and all those rainbows of light glowing in the streets of Montparnasse. His hand rested for a moment on the cool, smooth face: a funeral in all conscience.

  ‘She looks almost like a corpse,’ said Pagès.

  Gerbert shuddered. Pagès was tying a silk neckerchief under her chin as her eyes rested on the tiny cold bodies laid out on the bottom of their box.

  ‘It was nice of you to come tonight,’ he said. ‘It goes so much better when you’re here.’

  ‘But I said that I would come,’ she said with offended dignity.

  She had arrived just as the show was about to begin, and they had not had time even to exchange a few words. Gerbert glanced at her: if only he could find something to say to her, he was very anxious to keep her with him for a while. After all, she was not as intimidating as all that. With the neckerchief over her head, she even looked good-natured.

  ‘Did you go to the movie?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Xavière. She was twisting the fringe of her scarf. ‘It was too far.’

  Gerbert laughed.

  ‘By taxi it’s a lot nearer.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Xavière with a knowing look. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure.’ She smiled amiably. ‘Did you have a good dinner?’

  ‘I had jambon aux haricots rouges which was really a miracle,’ said Gerbert with enthusiasm. He stopped, embarrassed. ‘But, talk about grub sickens you.’

  Pagès raised her eyebrows, and they looked as if they might have been put on with a paint brush, as on a Japanese mask.

  ‘Who told you that? That’s a silly story.’

  Gerbert thought with satisfaction that he was becoming a psychologist, for it seemed clear to him that Xavière was still furious with Françoise and Labrousse.

  ‘You aren’t going to pretend that you like feeding your face?’ he said, laughing.

  ‘It’s because I’m a blonde,’ said Xavière with a hurt look. ‘It makes everyone think I’m ethereal.’

  ‘Bet you won’t come and eat a Hamburg steak with me?’ said Gerbert. He said it without thinking and was immediately aghast at his boldness.

  Xavière’s eyes sparkled gaily.

  ‘Bet you I will,’ she said.

  ‘Well, let’s go,’ said Gerbert. He stepped back to let her pass. ‘What in the world can I say to her?’ he thought uneasily. Still, he was quite proud of himself, no one could say he had not lifted a finger. This was really the first time he had taken so much initiative. Usually, he always found he had been left behind.

  ‘Oh! How cold it is!’ said Pagès.

  ‘Let’s go to the Coupole. It’s only a five-minute walk,’ said Gerbert.

  Pagès looked around with a pained expression.

  ‘Isn’t there any place nearer?’

  ‘Hamburg steak is eaten at the Coupole,’ said Gerbert firmly. These women were all the same, they were too hot or too cold, they required too much attention to be good companions. Gerbert had been fond of some of them because he liked to be liked, but it was hopeless, he felt bored in their company: if he had had the good fortune to be a homosexual, he would have associated only with men. On top of that, there was the hell of a to-do if you wanted to be rid of them, especially as he did not like to hurt anyone’s feelings. They understood in the long run, but they took their time about it. Annie was beginning to understand: this was now the third time he had failed to keep an appointment without letting her know. Gerbert looked fondly at the façade of the Coupole: the play of the lights gave him even as great a thrill of melancholy as did a jazz melody.

  ‘You see, it wasn’t far,’ he said.

  ‘That’s because you have long legs,’ said Xavière glancing at him approvingly. ‘I like people who walk fast.’

  Before pushing the revolving door, Gerbert turned to her.

  ‘Do you still feel like a Hamburger?’ he asked.

  Xavière hesitated.

  ‘To tell the truth, I don’t really and truly want one. But I am thirsty.’

  She looked at him apologetically. She was really attractive with her glowing cheeks and her childish fringe showing under her neckerchief. A daring notion struck Gerbert.

  ‘In that case, shall we go downstairs where there’s dancing?’ he said. He ventured a timid smile which often carried the day. ‘I’ll give you a lesson in tap-dancing.’

  ‘Oh! That would be wonderful!’ said Pagès, with such enthusiasm that he was a little taken aback. She tore the neckerchief off her head and dashed down the red stairs two at a time. Gerbert wondered in amazement whether there was not some truth in Elisabeth’s insinuations. Pagès was always so reserved with people! But tonight she welcomed the slightest advance with such alacrity.

  ‘We can sit here,’ he said, pointing to a table.

  ‘Yes, that will be just perfect,’ said Pagès. She looked round her with delight: it seemed that, faced with the threat of possible disaster, a dance-hall was considered a better refuge than the theatre, for there were several couples on the floor.

  ‘Oh! I adore this kind of decoration,’ said Pagès. She wrinkled her nose. When he saw her tricks of facial expression he frequently found it difficult to keep a straight face.

  ‘At Dominique’s everything is so select, what they call good taste.’ She pouted a little and gave him a conspiratorial look. ‘Don’t you think it has a niggardly look? Their humour too, their jokes, the whole thing seems so rigidly controlled.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Gerbert. ‘There’s precious little they can afford to laugh at. They remind me of that philosopher Labrousse told me about, who laughed when he saw a line drawn at a tangent to a circle; because it looks like an angle and it isn’t one.’

  ‘You’re making fun of me,’ said Pagès.

  ‘I promise you,’ said Gerbert, ‘it seemed to him to be the height of comedy, but nothing could have fallen flatter.’

  ‘Yet you’d say he didn’t want to miss a single chance of enjoying himself,’ said Pagès.

  Gerbert began to laugh.

  ‘Did you ever hear Charpini? Now there’s a fellow whom I call funny, especially when he sings Carmen. “My mother, I perceive her,” while Brancanto looks all over the place. “Where? Here? Where is she, poor woman?” I laugh till I cry at every line.’

  ‘No,’ said Pagès, looking downcast. ‘I’ve never heard anything really funny. I’d so love to.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to go some time,’ said Gerbert. ‘And Georgius? Don’t you know Georgius?’

  ‘No,’ said Pagès, looking at him wretchedly.

  ‘Perhaps you’d find him a bore,’ said Gerbert hesitantly. ‘His songs and even his wisecracks are very near the knuckle, he’s up to all the tricks of his trade.’ He could hardly imagine Pagès listening to Georgius with pleasure.

  ‘I’m sure I’d enjoy it,’ she said eagerly.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ said Gerbert.

  ‘A whisky,’ said Pagès.

  ‘Two whiskies, then,’ Gerbert said to the waiter. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘No, said Pagès with a grimace. ‘It smells like tincture of iodine.’

  ‘But you like drinking it, it’s just like me with Pernod,’ said Gerbert. ‘But I like whisky,’ he added with misgivings. He smiled boldly. ‘Shall we dance this tango?’

  ‘Surely,’ said Pagès. She got up and smoothed her skirt with the palm of her hand. Gerbert put his arm around her: he remembered that she danced well, better than Annie, better than Canzetti, but tonight, the perfection of her movements seemed miraculous to him; a light and delicate perfume rose from her fair hair, and for a moment Gerbert stopped thinking and yielded to the rhythm of the dance, to the singing of the guitars, to the orange haze of the lights, to the pleasurable satisfaction of hol
ding a lithe body in his arms.

  ‘I’ve been a fool,’ he thought suddenly. He should have asked her to go out with him weeks ago, and now the barracks were waiting for him. It was too late, this evening would have no tomorrow. He was filled with regret. In his life, nothing had ever had a tomorrow. He had admired from afar all beautiful and passionate love-affairs; but a great love was like ambition, it would have been possible only in a world in which things were important, in which the words one spoke, and the things one did, left their mark; and Gerbert felt as if he were being cooped up in a waiting-room whose exit no future would ever open for him. Suddenly, as the orchestra paused, the anguish which had hung over him all evening changed to panic. All these years that had slipped between his fingers had never seemed to be anything but a wasted period of marking time, but they made up his sole existence, and he would never know any other. When he was stretched out in a field, stiff and muddy, with his identification disc on his wrist, then indeed there would be absolutely nothing more.

  ‘Come, let’s go and drink another whisky,’ he said.

  Xavière smiled at him submissively. As they reached their table, they caught sight of a flower-girl who was offering them a basket filled with flowers. Gerbert stopped and picked out a red rose. He laid it down in front of Xavière, who pinned it to her bodice.

  Chapter Four

  Françoise gave one last fleeting glance at the looking-glass and, for once, no single detail displeased her. She had carefully plucked her eyebrows and brushed her hair straight up from the nape, thus accentuating the clear line of her neck, her white nails shone like rubies. She was looking forward to this evening: she was very fond of Paule Berger and she always enjoyed herself when she went out with her. Paule had agreed to take them to a Spanish night-club, an exact replica of a dance-restaurant in Seville, and Françoise was elated at the thought of a few hours’ escape from the strained, passionate, cloying atmosphere in which Pierre and Xavière had imprisoned her. She felt fresh and full of life and ready to enjoy at their proper value Paule’s beauty, the attractions of the performance, and the poetry of Seville which the music of the guitars and the taste of the Manzanilla would so soon bring to life.